Possibly, I could fold this paper with more than words
But I’m no artist
Zen in the art of ignorance
Practiced poetically
Possibly I could write Haikus
Interpret the language of impulse
But I haven’t got the patience
I put creases into the paper’s reams
Crinkled streams that flow with,
Nothing
Wise men will tell you that’s enlightenment
But their sage like sarcasm leaves them lonely
And mountaintops are a lot less romantic for a hermit
So don’t listen to them too closely
Or you’ll miss the rustling music all around
Calling you to dance
Bend the folds of your body
Form new dimensions
Two bodies finding anticipation in the anxious angles of each other
Bed covers sprawled out like indistinguishable art
“Perhaps it’s a swan,” whispers the omniscient onlooker
The individual smiles, knowing the truth
It’s only a mess